


Cool and Smooth

by Lassarina



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: F/M, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassarina/pseuds/Lassarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night after perhaps more wine than was wise, Locke finally manages to ask Celes for something he's been wanting for a while.  She is happy to oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cool and Smooth

Celes looks up at him, frozen in place like someone hit her with Blizzaga, and the wine makes his stomach lurch. It was probably a bad idea to ask that. He should--something. But she's not reaching for her sword.

There's something she's trying to read in his face that he can't quite identify, but she nods and sets aside her wine. "Do you have the materials?" she asks, and she's so--logical. It's disconcerting. Common, with her, but disconcerting.

He nods, his mouth too dry for words--is she really going to--and he makes himself get up off the couch and weave a little unsteadily toward the bedroom, and the box he keeps tucked in the bottom of the closet waiting on the day he'll have the nerve to ask her to use the things in it. Apparently today is that day. Sort of. He leaves most of the items in the box, but he takes the piece of carved wood that's been sanded silky-smooth, the neatly coiled leather straps that go with it, and the bottle of thickened oil.

When he emerges from the closet with those in his hands, she's already standing at the bedroom door, and it is just fucking unfair how much she can drink and still be rock-steady (the time she drank both Figaro brothers under the table is a story Setzer STILL tells with great relish, any time he thinks he can get away with it--which usually involves Sabin on the other side of the building. Or preferably the other side of the world.)

She crosses the room to meet him--he could watch her move forever, it's not the same graceful swaying that most women seem to have innately, but a firm and purposeful stride that really shows off just how well-honed that body is--and waits, with her hands open, palms up. She doesn't usually do subtle gestures, and he's surprised by that. Maybe she recognized that he's almost wishing he hadn't said it. It's not that he doesn't want it; it's that he's afraid _she_ doesn't.

He swallows hard. "You don't have to," he manages to say.

She tips her head. "You said that you enjoyed this." It's not exactly a question.

"Yeah. I do. I just don't know if _you_ do." There, it's out, he's said it. Maybe the wine will do more harm than good in the end.

The look she gives him is frankly puzzled. "How would I know if I like it? I've never done it."

He is profoundly grateful for, if perplexed by, her logic.

She studies the items in his hands and he can almost see her brain clicking smoothly through her thought process like gears in a well-made machine. He sees the moment that she realizes how the pieces fit together.

And then she reaches out and gently takes them from his hands and sets them aside, and leans in to kiss him.

Kissing her is always a little strange; even now with magic gone, without the spectral hum of Esper magic under her skin and laced through her bones in a way that could never be separated from her as a person, she's cooler to the touch than she should be. Her kiss always tastes like cool fresh water to him, unnerving and attractive at the same time. She takes her time with this, pressing soft little biting kisses up and down his jaw that make him shiver. He barely notices when she unbuttons his shirt and lets his bandanna fall to the floor, the beads all clattering.

He _does_ notice when she slips her hand into his trousers and her fingers close cool and smooth around his cock; he arches up into her hand, not quite sure when it was that she nudged him onto his back on the bed. She is kneeling over him, braced on one hand and perfectly balanced. He admires the play of muscle under her skin, how it's so _easy_ for her to brace like this even though he can see the faint flush under her skin that says she's enjoying this almost as much as he is.

She moves lightly off the bed to help him with his boots and trousers; he takes the opportunity to remove as much of her clothing as he can reach and pulls her back down on the bed with him, laughing when they bump into each other and kiss enthusiastically.

She shifts back, far enough to be a little bit out of reach, and stretches—long lean lines of muscle and grace—to reach the bedside table. He's startled when she presses the bottle of oil into his hand.

"I do not imagine the harness will trouble me," she says, "but I do not wish to hurt you, and I do not know how one—prepares."

Her tone is so formal, so careful, that he nearly abandons the entire proposal, but she has already slipped the dildo through the harness and is holding it easily in her hand, and the sight of black leather against her snow-pale skin drives pretty much every other thought straight out of his head. His reflexes kick back in just in time to catch the bottle he nearly drops, and he makes himself shut his mouth instead of staring blankly.

"Um," he says, and has to clear his throat. "I—can I watch you put that on first?"

A hint of a smile quirks the corner of her mouth, and she obligingly sorts out the straps. She's always been a quick study of anything she can physically get her hands on, machinery or otherwise, and it takes her only a few moments to have the harness ready to wear. She looks up and sees his face, and he sees the conscious decision she makes to slow down, to make it artful instead of efficient. His breath catches in his throat as she fastens each buckle slowly, creating a pattern over her skin of stark black lines and dull steel grey that's absolutely gorgeous. The dildo stretches out in front of her and she frowns at it, then tightens straps until it's firm against her body and standing at attention.

He makes himself breathe, and makes himself _not_ think about how that's going to feel inside him, because if he does then he's not going to last long enough.

He fumbles a little with the stopper in the bottle, and finally gets it open and gets some of the oil onto his fingers. She's watching intently, the same way she does when Edgar is explaining some incomprehensible bit of machinery or Setzer is explaining how to count cards, and so he tells himself to make it worth her while to watch.

It's been a _long_ time since he's done this; he's not used to it anymore, and now that he's not panicking about whether she's going to walk out, he's starting to think that maybe he shouldn't have been so ambitious. But worrying about it is the opposite of helpful right now, so he takes a deep breath and works one finger in, trying to get as much of the oil with it as he can.

He watches her, instead of thinking too hard about what he's doing, and he finds it fascinating that she holds herself so utterly still and unmoving while she watches him so carefully. He can practically hear the mental pen scratching on paper as she notes what he's doing, and after a minute he sees her hand start flexing a little in mimicry of his. He goes back for more oil and takes his time applying it, and slowly it becomes a little easier. He shifts himself to give her room between his legs when she wants it, and she moves a little closer, watching his hand with fascination.

When he's ready, he takes a last dose of oil—a generous one—and starts to slick it onto the dildo. The way her eyes go wide and dark, the ice blue disappearing into black pupil, is startlingly hot; she moves her hips slightly into his hand, the way he does when she touches him.

There's a little bit of awkward flailing as they both try to get into position, but again, her ability to balance almost anywhere comes in handy. Eventually they're both lined up and ready.

"Tell me if I—err," she says, cautiously, and then she presses against him, slowly.

It's a good thing she's being so careful, because it _is_ almost too much, and he has to consciously breathe out and remind himself to relax. She watches his face intently and he gets to watch how her body reacts exactly the way she tells it to, muscles coiled and held in rock-solid stillness where most people would struggle not to overbalance. She waits until he nods, and then eases forward again. She has her hands braced on either side of his head; he looks at the muscles cording under her skin and realizes (not for the first time) that she could break him if she wanted to. The fact that she won't, that she is holding herself so carefully in check because she doesn't want to hurt him, eases part of the tension he's still hanging on to, and he cants his hips upward to take her the rest of the way in.

He can smell her, mixed with the scents of oil and leather, and he reaches out to run his fingers over the textural difference where leather crosses skin. She makes a slight, pleased little noise and moves slowly against him, her eyes never leaving his face.

He isn't going to last long, and he knows it, so he starts to work his fingers under the leather straps to touch her; it's a tight fit but he's clever with his hands. She catches his wrist, fingers a cool bracelet against him, and shakes her head. "Later," she says. "This is for you."

He lets go of her and her hand settles lightly around his cock, one slow gentle stroke up his length, and he moans when that coincides with her sliding all the way in again. He's so close, and she is keeping her movements slow and even. She times the deep stretch and pressure inside him to the same rhythm of her hand on his cock, and he groans when he shifts so that the angle will hit him _just right;_ right before he comes, he sees her eyes dark and intent on his, and then her hand just brushes the head of his cock and he lets go.

He winces a little when she slowly draws back—it's not that she wasn't careful, but he was a little too ambitious there. It's nothing a Potion can't handle. She unfastens the straps slowly and sets it aside for cleaning later; he's going to have to get a new harness (if she'll ever do this again) because he can see where it being made for a differently-built woman has left red marks on her skin. When he can get his body to obey him again, he sits up and leans forward to kiss those marks.

"Thank you," he says.

The perplexed look is back. "You are welcome," she says, in that tone that means he has done something she can't categorize into her lists of "expected emotional responses." She pauses, and then continues. "I enjoyed it—and you enjoyed it."

He doesn't have words to answer that, so he pulls her down into the bed with him and gets to the serious task of seeing that she's as pleased as he is. She arches up against his mouth and clenches tight around his fingers when he slips them into her; he keeps going, again and again, until she twists away from him with an inarticulate sound of protest, her body still shuddering from the last orgasm.

He pulls her close against his side, removing the clinging bits of her hair that are absolutely determined to get into his mouth, and presses his mouth to the side of her neck.

"Locke," she says, somewhat muffled by the pillow.

"Yes?" He smooths her hair down again.

"Next time, just ask," she says.

He squeezes her tight enough to make her make that alarmed breathless squeaking noise, and hopes that expresses enough of what he wants to say and doesn't have the words to do it. She moves a little closer, and they fall asleep, tangled up in the sheets and each other.


End file.
